


Pathetic.

by PrinxietyGodfairy



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series), Thomas Sanders, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Allutions to self harm, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of alcohol, Sad boi, i was sad, im sorry, mentions of vomit, now Logan’s sad, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 04:42:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18087662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinxietyGodfairy/pseuds/PrinxietyGodfairy
Summary: It was just a picture, not more than a memory preserved with glass, strewn on a frivolous site, with the only purpose of letting others in on an alienating but addicting filtered blink of happiness.And it hurt.





	Pathetic.

Pathetic.

It was just a picture, not more than a memory preserved with glass, strewn on a frivolous site, with the only purpose of letting others in on an alienating but addicting filtered blink of happiness. 

And it hurt.

But maybe that wasn’t true. Maybe that was just the cynicism in Logan’s head trying to protect the broken shards in his chest he called a heart -funny, the concept of protecting broken, harmful things-. Logan could feel the blood dripping from the cuts where the pieces had settled in his chest. The scars that never healed opening again, memories flooding, bile climbing up his throat, all because of a picture. 

Why had he even turned on his phone?

Moron.

Something this idiotic shouldn’t be able to hurt him.

On his screen four boys could be seen smiling at Logan’s empty room. He could’ve been there if it wasn’t for the fact that everything he touched ended broken, anyone who loved him was pushed away. 

They were at a party, clearly drinking and smoking. Both things that Logan didn’t do because he was a boring, useless, antisocial prude. They seemed to be having a good time, probably were. 

Roman and Patton had always liked those types of reunions and Virgil had started to get more accustomed to them with the passage of time, or so it seemed. Not like Logan was around to know. 

Logan could’ve been there. In the party. Call the people in the picture friends. Maybe even had fun.

But the key to that door was in the past. Buried and burnt like most thing of his were.

If only Logan had known to forgive. 

He remembered the image of Declan’s hands in Roman’s hair, it sometimes felt like it was stitched to the back of his eyelids.

He could’ve forgiven Roman, could’ve gotten over his ex like a functioning human being, after all Roman was free to put his tongue wherever he pleased. 

It had just been so painful, the two bodies pressed against a wall only reminded him of how unlovable he was, never enough for those he cared for, that’s why Declan had left. That’s why most people had.

He had dated Declan for something around 5 months, was friends with him for over a year. Logan should’ve manned up and forgotten him as fast as Declan forgot about Logan.

So the morning after the party, when Logan was confronted with Roman, smelling like booze and apologizing reluctantly he had pushed him away, with the solid force of a cold voice and a “I have better things to do”.

Virgil, off course, had gone with Roman. Logan understood. He wouldn’t have chosen himself either. Their chats became less constant, their interactions became more distant, and with any attempt from Virgil to talk again, to pretend things were the same, he’d push again, until Virgil was far enough he’d forgotten Logan. Virgil seemed happier these days anyway.

Patton tried the hardest to stay, his kind heart always akin of holding the broken. He tried to balance his time with the others and his time with Logan. They talked and had movie nights and it felt like maybe Logan was okay, or at the very least he was going to be. 

He had been an anchor, he had held him together. He held him, until he couldn’t anymore. Because like everything else, Logan ruined it. His dumb heart started to beat for the other man, it had wished to believe he could be loved once more, but as always, there was a mirror there to remind who he was. He didn’t deserve the warm smiles, nor the kind words or soft touches, he didn’t deserve the sunshine that was Patton Hart. 

And in fear, Logan pushed, and no matter how hard Patton tried, Logan pushed, until he stopped trying. That void he left filled with rereading their texts and crying like the worthless shit he is.

And he pushed everything away, throwing himself into school, homework had become his best friend, it was hard to concentrate on life’s ailments when writing a paper on the reign of terror or string theory or the evolution of capitalism or whatever I was his teachers thought fit, and when that was done he could always read or put on headphones or take long showers and concentrate on the burn of the uncomfortably hot water. You’d never imagine the amount of free time you have with no friends, all Friday’s and weekends are free, all afternoons quiet, all holidays empty, except for the couple of days his parents had off work. 

And if anyone asked, Logan said he didn’t care, said he was fine, said he was just tired, just busy, just not hungry today, said they were never that close anyway -even when the bitter taste of lies burnt his throat it was always better than the sickening feeling of the truth on his tongue-, he found people to hang with, nice enough to be with a shit like him, and tried to remember himself that he was bidding on his time, after all, they were going to tire of him too, everyone has a countdown when it comes to him.

He hated the acid touch of tears in his eyes. Emotions were harder to keep at bay at this hour, completely alone in a bubble of time.

Unlovable.

Repulsive.

Annoying.

But he could numb the feelings, Ignore the yearning, the sadness, remind himself he was just being an attention slut making a big deal out of nothing, remind himself that there are to many people feeling actual suffering for him to bitch around for nothing, remind himself these feelings are fake and illogical.

And when it all failed, and he lost control over his body, he could always clean the vomit off the floor and put on headphones to pretend there was no world outside of the music, he even believed it sometimes, what an ephemeral sense of happiness it gave him.

But off course, there always were reminders. Like the damned image on his phone.

It seemed to carry a deadly virus with clear symptoms: nausea, headache, difficulty to breathe, to sleep, self hatred and a soft voice coming from the precision knife in your desk, like the song of a siren singing of a grim fate to a sailor, not sugarcoating anything because she knows he is not filled by greed or lust, he only wishes for the sweet kiss of death. The song a permanent ringing in his head as he eyed the closed drawer.

A virus, for which it’s only pill was to bury the pain under distractions, off course with side effects sometimes worse than the initial pain itself, but any relief was better than no relief at all, side effects be damned. 

And the silence of the hour at which he lies awake does nothing to cover up the disgusting sounds coming from Logan. 

Weak.

Useless.

At least he could say that he had done the right thing. 

They were better without him. 

And he was better off dead.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey sweeties!
> 
> I needed to vent a bit and I wrote this thing. I don’t know how well written it is but I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Here’s a list of suicide hotlines, in case any of you need them. Remember there’s nothing wrong with asking for help.
> 
> https://www.iasp.info/resources/Crisis_Centres/
> 
> https://www.imalive.org (That one is an online chat if you’re not to keen on phone calls)
> 
> Take care!


End file.
